Becoming a Deity (Retribution)

I'm surrounded by deputies and marshalls, police in riot gear, their shields forming a mock-turtleshell, as I'm rushed into the courtroom. I want to see the crowd, their banners and signs, their hatred and support, the media that almost outnumbers the protesters and supporters. An agent's piercing grip at the base of my skull keeps my head down and feet moving. Plus, this flak blanket is fucking heavy.

Police use tear gas and water cannons. Protesters fight the police and supporters. Supporters fight the protesters and police.

“This will go quickly,” my appointed lawyer says, even before the agent pushes me into the chair.

The room is unnervingly silent: chairs squeak, the few in attendance glance at anyone who attempts to hide a noise. The din outside is a low thrum dotted with occasional pops.

A woman behind me leans over the banister and whispers, “Your time is limited.”

I turn and smile at her. “I know.”

Finally, the Judge hobbles into the room, settles into her chair. “This has turned into a bloodbath circus,” she says, as much to herself it seems as to the room.

My lawyer addresses the Judge: “Your Honor, the Nexus implants show the deceased had nine hours remaining. Therefore, that is my client's jail sentence.” He places the implants—anodized gold and teal chips with a black counter—on the table. The Bailiff scoops them up and carries them to the bench.

She rolls them in her palms. “It is no coincidence the deceased had been released from his sentence less than thirty minutes before his demise. Such is the new way, it appears.” She sighs, shrugs, absently brushes lint from her robe. “In keeping with the current tradition and laws, I sentence you to nine hours, which is the remaining life the deceased would have lived had you not ended it.”